


A New Tradition

by benedictedcumberbatched



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:50:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1480240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benedictedcumberbatched/pseuds/benedictedcumberbatched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After that fateful Christmas party, Sherlock takes it upon himself to ensure that Molly has a Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> As always, nothing belongs to me. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC.
> 
> The sonnet "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day..." is Sonnet 18 and belongs to William Shakespeare.

Molly had never really celebrated Christmas much since her father had died. Some years she would venture down to whatever pub happened to be open, partake in a drink or two, before going home to another glass of wine and a book. Some years she would forgo the pub and just stay in with a glass of wine and whatever classic Christmas film happened to be on the telly at the time. 

The one year she did celebrate Christmas, she had been made a fool of. She could never forget, no matter how hard she tried, how Sherlock had broken her down piece by piece, only to apologize. She didn’t know what had shocked her more, his tongue lashing, his apology, or the kiss to her cheek after. She could still remember the feel of his lips against her cheek. However nice the moment had been, it had been broken by that erotic tone. 

Then there was the morgue. He had told her she didn’t have to come in. She had told him it was nothing, everyone else was having Christmas. She tried to ignore the look on his face when he had identified the disfigured body on her slab by not her face. She hadn’t understood it, had hurt from it when she had no right to be in pain. 

That was when it all started. She remembered waking up the following morning, the presents from friends had already been opened the day before, as were the gifts from distant relatives she hadn’t seen or really heard from in years. But as she entered the living room and flopped onto the couch, a neatly wrapped gift, adorned in deep blue paper and a gold bow, sat under her tree. She was positive she hadn’t missed any. 

Unraveling herself from the couch, she got up and grabbed it. It was light, and fairly small. She looked to see if there was a card on it or near it but there was nothing. She peeled away the paper and opened the box. Inside was a rather handsome, emerald green scarf. As she pulled it out, a slip of paper fell to the floor. The material was smooth and cool beneath her fingertips. It was definitely expensive. Reaching down, she picked up the paper and opened it. 

_Happy Christmas –SH_

Molly stared at the careful scrawl of his handwriting. Why had he done this? She grabbed her mobile from the side table and made to text him, but thought against it. She wrapped the scarf around her and settled to the couch.

\---

Each Christmas she had received one gift more than she was used to. It was always something different, and generally something unique but functional. A new scalpel engraved with her name and credentials, a hat and gloves set that she wore every day, the next book in various series’ that she enjoyed, or a bottle of her favorite wine. 

She had expected the gifts to stop when he ‘died.’ But they hadn’t. They were just delayed. But she enjoyed them just the same; they were reminders that he was still alive. 

But after the first year of his death, things became different. She had met Tom. She had spent that second Christmas with his family. It was the first time in years she had spent the holiday with someone other than her wine, her book, and Toby. But the present came regardless, and was waiting for her when she got home. 

Inside the box was a beautiful gold pendant, an angel. She remembered in one of his few letters that he had alluded to what Jim had said on the rooftop before their plan had been put into action. She clasped the necklace around her neck and never took it off except to shower or when she was at work. She would always hang it up in her locker, her ring hanging off the chain. 

That was the most painful to look at. 

\---

The next Christmas after his return, there was no gift. She wondered what had occurred to change tradition. It wasn’t until he came to her days later, a red wrapped gift in hand and looking worse for wear, that she had learned about Magnussen. She had ranted and raved and cried while he looked on from her couch, holding that gift in his lap. She finally sank beside him and he set it on her knee. 

She turned to look at him; his blue-green eyes a mix of wariness and weariness. She looked away and opened the gift. This time there was bottle of her favorite perfume. As usual, there was a note.

_I’m sorry – Sherlock_

It was the first time he had used his name instead of his initials.

\---

She sat on the bed; playing with the gold necklace around her neck as she looked at the gifts he had given her over the years. Christmas had become a special time for her. While she still didn’t really celebrate it, it had taken on a new meaning for her. 

She pulled on his red dressing gown before heading out to find him making tea in the kitchen. She knew he could hear her walking but he never turned toward her until she had crept up behind him and wrapped her arms around him. His large hand fell to hers at his stomach. He smiled down at her before turning out of her arms and pressing a cup into her hands. He jerked his head toward the tree they had begun to set up a year prior. 

He grabbed a silver wrapped box and held it out to her wordlessly. It was slightly bigger than she had received in the past. Unwrapping it, she watched him out of the corner of his eye and he had that knowing glint in his eyes, that one he got whenever he was up to no good. Opening the box, she peeled aside the tissue paper and lifted out the note. 

_Molly—_

_I’m not really that good with words when it comes to things like this. This is more than likely cliché but I think the Bard himself said it perfectly:_

_Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?_  
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:  
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,  
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:  
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,  
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,  
And every fair from fair sometime declines,  
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:  
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,  
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,  
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,  
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,  
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,  
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

_I know I don’t say it enough mostly because I don’t know how or when but I do love you, Molly Hooper. I don’t know how you put up with me but I hope I can make you happy._

_Happy Christmas,  
Your Sherlock_

She wiped away at the tears that had fallen down her face before setting the note aside. A blue scarf, not unlike the one he wore every day, appeared before her. She smiled as she felt the fabric. It was so soft; she couldn’t wait to wear it as well. Lifting it out, she frowned as she heard something hit the bottom of the box. Moving the scarf aside, her eyes widened as they fell upon the item. 

She looked over at him in shock before he nodded and she lifted a beautifully crafted white gold band inlayed with various stones that reminded her of the ever-changing colors of his eyes with a single, fairly large, cushion cut diamond in the center from the box.

“Is this…” she trailed off, her voice thick.

He reached over and held the ring between his thumb and forefinger. “It is.”

She blinked back tears as she nodded. “Yes.”

She heard him exhale as if he had been holding his breath before he slid the ring onto her finger. She threw her arms around him, the blue scarf falling to the floor. Drawing back, her hands resting against the side of his neck, she tilted her head up slightly and kissed him. 

“Happy Christmas, Molly Hooper,” he murmured against her lips.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”


End file.
